A Man as Strong as Hercules
by Old English Game
Summary: This mission, more than any other, he needed to complete. 'T' for language and bloodshed


"You got everything set?" Curtis asked, helping Terry to tighten the last straps on the parachute.

Terry rolled his eyes, "Yes, Mom, I've got everything," But still, he made sure the briefcase was tightly secured to his belt. Then, leaning forward, he pushed open the hatch and immediately the vacuum outside threatened to yank him out by the throat, "See you in England," He grinned at his friend.

Curtis nodded, glancing with distaste at the blackness outside the airplane, "Take care, Rob," He said earnestly, clapping a hand on Terry's shoulder.

"And you too, Mitchell," Terry nodded, and jumped out of the plane.

It was blasted cold.

He yanked the cord. It was cynically fitting that at the exact moment the parachute yanked him upwards and nearly ripped him in two, the gunfire started.

And Terry couldn't do a single thing but watch. He watched the Anti-Aircraft batteries hit the plane at least three, four times. He watched the plane catch fire. He watched it explode.

He didn't realize he was hit for a half second, the biting cold air and dizzying height and the shock staring at what was left of the burning plane as it plunged and not a single bloody parachute. But then he felt the pinch, and suddenly the gaping explosion in his chest that dug between his ribs.

He gasped, his hands flying towards the wound, clutching the shirt already soaking with blood. God, he couldn't die, this mission needed to go through. This one, more than any other. God, just long enough to finish the job.

Something blunt but riddled with small pricks brushed up against his leg, and he realized he was descending under the tree cover now. He just remembered how he was supposed to land.

Then he fell back, hitting the ground, but the parachute cords were just the right length to tug upwards uncomfortably. He stared at the great white mushroom cap tangled in the trees above him and hoped those Stalag 13 boys would hurry. He should get up, try to hide.

That changed when he tried to push himself up on one elbow and the pain that roiled in his chest shot up his spine and slammed into his brain. He collapsed back, gasping sharply. The parachute cords dug into his back.

God, not until I finish this mission. That's all I need. Funny, it didn't hurt as bad as he'd thought it would. Was it adrenaline?

He grabbed the straps of the parachute tightly and started to pull himself up. Come on, Rob, you're tough.

But suddenly he heard the underbrush shaking with the distinct sound of someone sneaking through them. German patrols didn't sneak.

"Hercules?" Two shadows just slightly lighter than the rest of the forest appeared in his line of vision, tugging him up and quickly undoing the parachute straps.

"Right," He couldn't help the relieved grin, "You chaps Stalag 13?"

"We are. Welcome to Krautland," The man on his right said sardonically. Amen.

Something in his chest shifted - he should have had pressure on that, damn it all, "Aw-!" He felt his muscles tense and then drain as he gasped for breath. It hurt.

"Oh," A careful hand touched over his own as its owner inspected the damage, "He's wounded."

"Yeah," The man on the right tugged away the torn fabric, "It must have been the flak when they brought the plane down," He sounded like a Londoner, East End, more than likely.

"Let's get this off," The man - American, he thought - undid the knot around the briefcase handle, and Terry tightened his grip on the smooth new leather.

"Careful," He whispered tightly, looking at each man earnestly, "Loaded. Explosives."

He froze for a moment, and then nodded, "Okay." Terry let the briefcase go.

"Can you walk, mate?" The Londoner asked.

"Negative," He smiled wryly. He'd tried that already, "Sorry."

"Alright, then."

Terry sucked in a painful breath as they lifted him up, and they went on, "Don't worry, we're not too far."

It was - maybe ten minutes? - his perception was skewing - when the Londoner grunted, "Kinch, we gotta break, me arms are about to give out."

"Mine too. Here, ease him down slow," The ground came up smoothly underneath him, and then the rough bark of a tree hit against the back of his head - where had his hat gone?

He winced as the shrapnel shifted inside, and gasped. It had been adrenaline fueling hin earlier, and suddenly now the full suffering of the thing was hitting him, "I - I'd better tell you chaps now what's going on."

"What?" The Londoner moved closer, "No, we'll get you back in time. You'll be fine," It was a weak excuse.

"Newkirk," The American said softly. Terry was pretty sure it was his hand pressed to his gut right now, holding him together,"I think he'd better tell us."

Damn.

"Alright," He said, drawing in a breath, "General Staufen - Hitler's staff - he's on our side, there's a bunch of the German brass plotting - to assassinate 'itler," He paused to swallow the blood that rose up in the back of his throat, "And he special-ordered this briefcase," He motioned for the briefcase, and it was pressed into his hands, "The bottom and sides are full of this new lightweight explosive, right," He squinted through the vague shadows and iridescent spots dancing around, "He's coming to your place for inspection, he can do that, throw his weight around and whatnot - ooh," Something shifted again and he nearly dropped the briefcase, "That's when he picks this up. It's delayed action, to start it you close it on this bottom slot here," He felt for it with shaking fingers, "Thirty minutes," His voice was suddenly much weaker than he'd intended, "Thirty - thirty minutes," He gasped.

"Shit, Kinch, he's passing out -!"

Someone caught him.

**End.**

**Sorry, the first time I tried to publish this the formatting was way off because I indented my paragraphs.**


End file.
